


The Case of the Doctor's Drawers

by redscudery



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Again, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Blow Jobs, Clothing Kink, Coming In Pants, I swear to god it never stops, It's For a Case, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Semi-Public Sex, Top John, Victorian, inspired by the shspesh poster
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-09
Updated: 2015-07-09
Packaged: 2018-04-08 10:44:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4301712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redscudery/pseuds/redscudery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dr. John Watson is most put out when he finds that his regular tailor is unavailable, and unimpressed with the alternate tailor suggested, but his trousers are ripped and he has little choice. </p>
<p>Of course, he changes his tune when he sees the tailor's assistant is none other than the celebrated Sherlock Holmes. And when Sherlock Holmes measures John Watson's inseam, well, anything can--and should--happen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Case of the Doctor's Drawers

**Author's Note:**

  * For [doctornerdington](https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctornerdington/gifts).



> Inspired by THAT PICTURE (i.e. the promo photo). Thanks to doublenegative for the speedy beta!

Today, I put pen to paper in this account with a certain amount of trepidation, as the adventure that follows is quite unlike the usual exploits of Sherlock Holmes, world’s only consulting detective. My readers, expecting some intrigue that shows Holmes’ amazing talents in crime-solving, might be disappointed--not to mention shocked--at the turn those amazing talents take, in deducing what I, his loyal friend, have perhaps been too reticent to say, or rather request.

And so, to those readers, I can only say that while I am sensible to their reluctance, I have also committed myself to chronicle all of Sherlock Holmes’ most wonderful cases, and this, The Case of the Doctor’s Drawers, is perhaps the most wonderful of all. As this is perhaps the most personal of narratives, I present it in the third person, the shift providing some slight distance that may make it more agreeable, given the content.

\----------

It all began in quite an ordinary way: John Watson needed a new suit. He had become aware that both his brown tweed and his hunter-green check were not quite as fresh as they might be, and so resolved to see his tailor as soon as occasion permitted. 

However, when he arrived at the tailor’s shop on the day he had fixed with the tailor’s assistant, the tailor came forward and, after shaking his hand apologetically, said that he had had a contretemps and would be unable to serve Dr. Watson today. If the good Doctor could not come back tomorrow, he said, he could suggest another tailor, highly recommended, in Devon Street, not five steps from this very shop. 

John knew that he should wait, for unknown tailors are worse in many ways than unknown doctors, and often their errors persist for longer, but he was impatient, having gotten a vexing tear in his brown suit that very morning. So he took the address and set off, hoping he would find an establishment to his liking.

When he arrived, it certainly seemed acceptable, though perhaps of a slightly higher caliber than he was used to. The word “Kingsman” was embossed on the window in gold, and the door was beautifully carved wood. Still, in quest of his suit, he entered. 

A quietly dressed man emerged from behind the counter as soon as the bell rang, and shook his hand. 

“Dr. Watson,” he said. “We have been expecting you. Please, let me show you to Fitting Room One, and my assistant will be with you shortly.”

John was slightly taken aback at the warm welcome, but followed, and did not protest when he was ushered into a well-appointed room. 

“Thank you, sir,” the tailor said, and bowed himself out.

John took off his gloves and hat and laid them on the olive leather chair beside his cane. He checked his moustache in the mirror. Grey, he thought. This next suit should be grey, with perhaps a slight embellishment, but nothing ostentatious. A waistcoat, perhaps? 

When the door opened and the assistant came in on silent feet, John was ready. He assumed the correct stance for measurement.

“You’ll find,” he said, all business, “that my left shoulder is slightly different than my right, due to an injury.”

“Indeed sir,” the assistant replied. 

John stared. It was Sherlock, dressed in a most unusual suit and carrying a tape measure.

“Sherlock,” he hissed, “can it be…” But Sherlock shook his head, and John subsided. 

“Now, sir,” Sherlock’s voice was even more unctuous than normal, “you were saying, about your shoulder?”

“Yes, ah.. it was injured in Afghanistan, and is a trifle higher than the other.”

“Any other anomalies, sir?”

“No, not at all. A slight limp, but that is of no matter.”

“And, sir,” Sherlock asked, “do you dress left or right?”

An impertinent question, John felt, since a brief glance would reveal that he dressed right, but he supposed that Sherlock, not having the tailor’s experience, could not be expected to do everything correctly.

“Right,” he said, curtly.

“Ah. Of course.” Sherlock said, looking down. “My apologies. If you would just stand still, sir, while I measure you.”

John stood while Sherlock took his arm and chest measurements, watching the large hands manipulate the tape expertly. He breathed through his mouth, trying not to inhale Sherlock’s scent, or his nearness.

And then Sherlock measured his neck. Fingers, broad but delicate, undid his collar studs and brushed the sensitive spots at his throat. John’s pulse jumped, but he reined himself in. He did not, could not, breathe a sigh of relief as Sherlock moved on to his waist, though; now Sherlock was on his knees before him and looking intently at his hips. It would be a matter of mere moments before those talented hands were at his inseam. If things were not to become critical, John must distract himself, and immediately. 

Ulcerated polyps, he thought to himself. Scrofulous...hands. Blue...eyes. He could no longer look down. Sherlock was not doing anything untoward; his attention appeared to be entirely focused on his work. John, however, found his nearness distracting; the heat of his breath was evident through the thin spot in his trousers. He shifted, hoping Sherlock would be too absorbed in writing his measurements down to notice his discomfiture.

“Is sir quite...comfortable?” Sherlock’s sly upward glance made it quite clear that he had taken in everything.

“Fine,” John bit out. “Although I believe I am resigned, after all, to waiting for my regular tailor, if you will be kind enough to excuse me.”

“But sir,” Sherlock smiled. “Your comfort is important to us. Is there anything I might do to help?” His smile was of the most predatory kind, but something behind it--that, and the subservient tone--stirred John’s own instinct. Making a sudden decision, he gripped Sherlock’s shoulder, and felt him shiver under his hands. 

“Indeed, my man. These trousers, it appears, are torn. If you would do me the kindness of inspecting the rip?”

Sherlock blinked, but did as he was told. One finger slid along the fabric, finding the slight tear that had so incommoded John this morning.

“And?” John asked, as Sherlock touched the bare skin of John’s thigh. 

“Torn,” Sherlock breathed. 

“What solution do you suggest?” John asked, relishing the slip in Sherlock’s focus.

“If...if you remove the trousers, sir, I could mend them.”

“And what shall I do while I wait?” 

“Many gentlemen nap, sir, or read their paper.”

“Dull. That sounds dull, don’t you think so?” 

“Somewhat. If you would, sir.” Sherlock stood, and took a step back to wait at a respectful distance. 

John bent to untie his shoe, noticing as he did so that Sherlock was not looking away. Well, then. He slid one finger under the lace and pulled, letting it slowly untie, and did the same for the other. He toed off his shoes.

“May I move these to one side?” Sherlock asked.

“Please do,” John said, as he stripped off one sock and then the other. Sherlock sighed. John reached for his trouser button, as slowly as he could manage. He had only half removed it when Sherlock exclaimed, “Let me!” and--impossibly, perfectly--sank to his knees, his hands pushing John’s away.

“Of course,” John said, belatedly, but the trousers were already at his hips, and then his thighs, and then off, and he stood there in his shirt, waistcoat, and drawers. The loose linen of these last was distended, his cock swollen from Sherlock’s eagerness and submission. 

“Is there no other thing I can do for you, sir?” Sherlock asked, a flush on his cheeks. “I would be honoured...John.” He looked up in to John’s eyes, his submission complete, and it would have taken a less loving friend to tell him no. John nodded.

In a moment, Sherlock’s face was against his cock, his breath ever hotter and more eager with only the linen between them. John pushed himself forward slightly, and let Sherlock mouth along his length. It had been so long, and this was Sherlock in front of him, on his knees, hard in his trousers, and begging to touch him. 

“Please,” someone said, and Sherlock was fumbling at the buttons of John’s drawers. John’s hands itched to help him, but he balled them up and let his friend continue the delicious torture. 

When his cock was free, Sherlock wasted no time, engulfing the hot, plump head between those ravishing lips. John felt him pause for a moment; he knew full well the pleasure Sherlock took in tasting and testing with his mouth, and knew that his cock was being catalogued: weight, girth, taste, hardness. He smiled, feeling a flush of affection. 

When Sherlock began to take him in in earnest, however, John’s smile froze on his face. He had underestimated his friend’s enthusiasm and experience both, and the pleasure that overcame him at the skilful workings of tongue, lips, hands--and, yes, teeth, judiciously applied--was acute. He bit his fist as Sherlock sucked him; his hips, of their own accord, sought more pressure, more friction, and Sherlock loosened his throat to allow it. 

Seeing his entire affair disappear into Sherlock’s mouth nearly brought John to crisis there, but, biting back a curse, he held on, focusing his senses on Sherlock’s movements rather than the delight that they brought. By dint of moving his foot forward, he positioned himself so as to provide some relief to that distended cock as well. The sounds Sherlock made as he did so, however, brought him to the edge in a gasping rush, his seed exploding into Sherlock’s mouth and over his face with surprising force. Sherlock swallowed what he could, his reddened lips gasping, and then, as John watched, convulsed in climax himself. John, shuddering with aftershocks, folded to his knees and took Sherlock into his arms, kissing those lips and thrilling to the taste of himself. Sherlock kissed back with fervour as his pleasure drew to a close.

Together they pulled themselves to the chair and sat entwined, sated and warm. It was many long moments before either of them spoke.

“I do need a new suit,” John whispered.

“And you shall have it,” Sherlock smiled back. “Grey, with a slim stripe and a waistcoat to match. I’ve ordered it.”

John stared again. 

“And what,” he asked, “has this been in aid of, then?”

Sherlock smiled. 

“I trust,” he said, “that you are not questioning my methods.”

“Sherlock, I am always questioning your methods. What I am not questioning, today, is your results.”

“Very well,” Sherlock replied, and would answer no further. He did, however, insist upon replicating the experience regularly, particularly when the grey suit he had ordered for John arrived. Fit, it seemed, was something that had to be closely verified.


End file.
